H. P. Lovecraft: The Complete Fiction E-Book

H. P. Lovecraft

• Herausgeber: HP
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

CONTENTSPart I. - Juvenilia (1887-1905)Poemata Minora, Volume IIPart II. - Fantasy and HorrorNemesisAstrophobosThe Poe-et's NightmareDespairRevelationThe HouseThe CityTo Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, Eighteenth Baron DunsanyThe Nightmare LakeOn Reading Lord Dunsany's Book of WonderThe CatsFestivalHallowe'en in a Suburb aka “In a Suburb”The WoodThe OutpostThe Ancient TrackThe MessengerNathicanaFungi from YuggothIn a Sequester'd Providence Churchyard Where Once Poe Walk'dTo Clark Ashton Smith, Esq., upon His Phantastick Tales, Verses, Pictures, and SculpturesPart III. - Occasional VerseOn Receiving a Picture of SwansFact and FancyLaeta; a LamentPart IV. - SatireUnda; or, The Bride of the SeaPacifist War Song—1917Waste PaperDead Passion's FlameArcadiaLife's MysteryPart V. - Seasonal and TopographicalA GardenSunsetProvidenceChristmasChristmas GreetingsPart VI. - Politics and SocietyAn American to Mother EnglandLines on Gen. Robert Edward LeeThe Rose of EnglandThe Peace AdvocateOde for July Fourth, 1917The Conscript

Leseprobe

The Complete Poetry of H. P. Lovecraft

b.1890 — d.1937

This book contains every poem in the public domain that has been attributed to H. P. Lovecraft and confirmed in the online resource, The H.P. Lovecraft Archive. 

Contents

Part I. - Juvenilia (1887-1905)

Poemata Minora, Volume II

Part II. - Fantasy and Horror

Nemesis

Astrophobos

The Poe-et’s Nightmare

Despair

Revelation

The House

The City

To Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, Eighteenth Baron Dunsany

The Nightmare Lake

On Reading Lord Dunsany’s Book of Wonder

The Cats

Festival

Hallowe’en in a Suburb aka “In a Suburb”

The Wood

The Outpost

The Ancient Track

The Messenger

Nathicana

Fungi from Yuggoth

In a Sequester’d Providence Churchyard Where Once Poe Walk’d

To Clark Ashton Smith, Esq., upon His Phantastick Tales, Verses, Pictures, and Sculptures

Part III. - Occasional Verse

On Receiving a Picture of Swans

Fact and Fancy

Laeta; a Lament

Part IV. - Satire

Unda; or, The Bride of the Sea

Pacifist War Song—1917

Waste Paper

Dead Passion’s Flame

Arcadia

Life’s Mystery

Part V. - Seasonal and Topographical

A Garden

Sunset

Providence

Christmas

Christmas Greetings

Part VI. - Politics and Society

An American to Mother England

Lines on Gen. Robert Edward Lee

The Rose of England

The Peace Advocate

Ode for July Fourth, 1917

The Conscript

Part I.

Poemata Minora, Volume II

* * * * *

Written: 1902

First Published in:

“Ode to Selene or Diana” (as “To Selene”)

The Tryout

, Vol. 5, No. 4 (April 1919), Page 18

“To the Old Pagan Religion” (as “The Last Pagan Speaks”)

The Tryout

, Vol. 5, No. 4 (April 1919), Page 17

“On the Ruin of Rome” A Winter Wish. Chapel Hill, NC: Whispers Press, 1977, Page 150

“To Pan” (as “Pan”)

The Tryout

, Vol. 5, No. 4 (April 1919), Page 16

“On the Vanity of Human Ambition” A Winter Wish. Chapel Hill, NC: Whispers Press, 1977, Page 143

Ode to Selene or Diana

Immortal Moon, in maiden splendour shine.

Dispense thy beams, divine Latona’s child.

Thy silver rays all grosser things define,

And hide harsh truth in sweet illusion mild.

In thy soft light, the city of unrest

That stands so squalid in thy brother’s glare

Throws off its habit, and in silence blest

Becomes a vision, sparkling bright and fair.

The modern world, with all it’s care & pain,

The smoky streets, the hideous clanging mills,

Face ’neath thy beams, Selene, and again

We dream like shepherds on Chaldæa’s hills.

Take heed, Diana, of my humble plea.

Convey me where my happiness may last.

Draw me against the tide of time’s rough sea

And let my sprirt rest amid the past.

To the Old Pagan Religion

Olympian gods! How can I let ye go

And pin my faith to this new Christian creed?

Can I resign the deities I know

For him who on a cross for man did bleed?

How in my weakness can my hopes depend

On one lone God, though mighty be his pow’r?

Why can Jove’s host no more assistance lend,

To soothe my pain, and cheer my troubled hour?

Are there no Dryads on these wooded mounts

O’er which I oft in desolation roam?

Are there no Naiads in these crystal founts?

Nor Nereids upon the Ocean foam?

Fast spreads the new; the older faith declines.

The name of Christ resounds upon the air.

But my wrack’d soul in solitude repines

And gives the Gods their last-receivèd pray’r.

On the Ruin of Rome

Low dost thou lie, O Rome, neath the foot of the Teuton

Slaves are thy men, and bent to the will of thy conqueror:

Wither hath gone, great city, the race that gave law to all nations,

Subdu’d the east and the west, and made them bow down to thy consuls.

Knew not defeat, but gave it to all who attack’d thee?

Dead! and replac’d by these wretches who cower in confusion

Dead! They who gave us this empire to guard and to live in

Rome, thou didst fall from thy pow’r with the proud race that made thee,

And we, base Italians, enjoy’d what we could not have builded.

To Pan

Seated in a woodland glen

By a shallow reedy stream

Once I fell a-musing, when

I was lull’d into a dream.

From the brook a shape arose

Half a man and half a goat.

Hoofs it had instead of toes

And a beard adorn’d its throat

On a set of rustic reeds

Sweetly play’d this hybrid man

Naught car’d I for earthly needs,

For I knew that this was Pan

Nymphs & Satyrs gather’d ’round

To enjoy the lively sound.

All to soon I woke in pain

And return’d to haunts of men.

But in rural vales I’d fain

Live and hear Pan’s pipes again.

On the Vanity of Human Ambition

Apollo, chasing Daphne, gain’d his prize

But lo! she turn’d to wood before his eyes.

More modern swains at golden prizes aim,

And ever strive some worldly thing to claim.

Yet ’tis the same as in Apollo’s case,

For, once attain’d, the purest gold seems base.

All that men seek ’s unworthy of the quest,

Yet seek they will, and never pause for rest.

True bliss, methinks, a man can only find

In virtuous life, & cultivated mind.

Part II.

Nemesis

* * * * *

Written: 1st November 1917

First Published in The Vagrant, No. 7 (June 1918), Pages 41-43

Thro’ the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,

Past the wan-moon’d abysses of night,

I have liv’d o’er my lives without number,

I have sounded all things with my sight;

And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.

I have whirl’d with the earth at the dawning,

When the sky was a vaporous flame;

I have seen the dark universe yawning,

Where the black planets roll without aim;

Where they roll in their horror unheeded, without knowledge or lustre or name.

I had drifted o’er seas without ending,

Under sinister grey-clouded skies

That the many-fork’d lightning is rending,

That resound with hysterical cries;

With the moans of invisible daemons that out of the green waters rise.

I have plung’d like a deer thro’ the arches

Of the hoary primoridal grove,

Where the oaks feel the presence that marches

And stalks on where no spirit dares rove;

And I flee from a thing that surrounds me, and leers thro’ dead branches above.

I have stumbled by cave-ridden mountains

That rise barren and bleak from the plain,

I have drunk of the fog-foetid fountains

That ooze down to the marsh and the main;

And in hot cursed tarns I have seen things I care not to gaze on again.

I have scann’d the vast ivy-clad palace,

I have trod its untenanted hall,

Where the moon writhing up from the valleys

Shews the tapestried things on the wall;

Strange figures discordantly woven, which I cannot endure to recall.

I have peer’d from the casement in wonder

At the mouldering meadows around,

At the many-roof’d village laid under

The curse of a grave-girdled ground;

And from rows of white urn-carven marble I listen intently for sound.

I have haunted the tombs of the ages,

I have flown on the pinions of fear

Where the smoke-belching Erebus rages,

Where the jokulls loom snow-clad and drear:

And in realms where the sun of the desert consumes what it never can cheer.

I was old when the Pharaohs first mounted

The jewel-deck’d throne by the Nile;

I was old in those epochs uncounted

When I, and I only, was vile;

And Man, yet untainted and happy, dwelt in bliss on the far Arctic isle.

Oh, great was the sin of my spirit,

And great is the reach of its doom;

Not the pity of Heaven can cheer it,

Nor can respite be found in the tomb:

Down the infinite aeons come beating the wings of unmerciful gloom.

Thro’ the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,

Past the wan-moon’d abysses of night,

I have liv’d o’er my lives without number,

I have sounded all things with my sight;

And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.